


What Are All These Kissings Worth?

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Amelle Hawke [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short unrelated ficlets, written for the Dragon Age Kiss Battle and kiss-drabble prompt memes, featuring Amelle Hawke (F!Mage) and Fenris.  (I'm not sure if I actually <em>mention</em> Amelle by name here, but it's her all the same.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beyond Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for phdfan’s prompt: Couldn’t trust anyone but you.

_###_

_I love you the more in that_

_I believe you had liked me_

_For my own sake and for_

_Nothing else._

_~John Keats_

###

He’s had scarce little reason to trust.  Indeed, he cannot _remember_ trusting anyone—and of course he cannot; his memory is full to bursting with cruelties gathered up and collected like shells across the shore at low tide.  If there is trust anywhere in his past, it exists beyond a barrier he cannot breach.  But, oh, he breached it once—once, and only for a moment before it was gone, fleeing through his fingers like sand or water.  

But beyond Fenris’ own faulty memory, there is instinct.  Instinct, too, tells him trust is a fool’s luxury leading only to pain, to humiliation, to degradation.  

And yet.

He has tried turning away.  It was a misguided effort to protect himself from any number of things, though mostly, if he’s to be honest with himself, the one he wished most to protect himself from was Hawke.  Hawke, with her honesty.  Hawke, with her concern.  Hawke, with her honest questions and even more honest answers.  He trusts her—he cannot help but trust her, for she has never given him reason to do otherwise.

If trust is a fool’s luxury, more fool he; it is a folly he will gladly revel in.

“You’re thinking again,” she says, pale pink lips twisting into a smile, green eyes laughing, but not at him.  Never _at_ him.

“Perhaps.”  It’s the only answer he gives, the only answer he needs to give.

“About?”  She winds her arms about his neck, and it still amazes him that the closeness, the touch, the inherent possessiveness of the gesture doesn’t _bother_ him.  On the contrary, he presses closer to her, wraps _his_ arms about her in turn.

“Ought I to make you guess?” 

Hawke makes a face then, a moue that hovers between self-deprecating and comical.  “You know how abysmal I am at guessing games, Fenris.  How about a hint?”

“A hint,” he echoes, thoughtfully.  His hand rests just at the flare of her hips where his thumb begins rubbing a slow circle.  Hawke’s eyes flutter shut as she sucks in a slow breath.

“Would that happen to be a hint?” Her voice is pitched lower, soft as aural velvet, and Fenris knows with a firmer stroke, right where he’s rubbing now, there will be no more talk of guessing games, because there will be _no more talk at all._

“It is not,” he says, sliding his hand upward.

“Pity.”

And even as they exchange volleys and caresses with equal ease, he marvels at how very _well_ he knows her.  When they sink down together upon the sofa, Fenris above her—and a small part of him still marvels at that, marvels that Hawke cedes control to him so easily—he knows the sound she makes when his lips brush her collarbone (a gasp), when his tongue darts out to glide along the curve of her jaw (a whimper).  He knows beyond a shadow of doubt that every one of his ministrations is wanted. 

_Desired._  

With Hawke, there is no disdain, no mockery, no humiliation or rejection.  There is no fear of a misstep.  There is only her, and her response to him.  And as he angles his mouth over hers, he knows what that response will be.  Her arms tighten around him as her hands clutch at his back; she parts her lips with a moan, all acceptance and eagerness.  There is no pain hidden in this pleasure, and it has taken time for Fenris to stop _expecting_ pain, and all that comes with it.  His tongue slides against hers and she arches beneath him, both hands sliding up his back to fist in his hair.  

Kisses are intimate things.  There’s nowhere to hide in a kiss; it’s like a shaft of daylight in which every flaw is thrown into relief.  And as Hawke’s teeth graze his lip, as she chuckles huskily when he groans, Fenris knows this is who she is.  There is no concealment here, no lies as her tongue swipes a path along the ridge of his teeth.  

And there is no scorn as she pulls away long enough to breathe _I love you_ before losing herself in his mouth again.

 


	2. Names Will Never Hurt Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for lassarina’s prompt: Sharp edges and anger

###

_Take me to you, imprison me,_

_For I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free,_

_Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me._

_~John Donne_

###

Hawke knows he is not angry at _her_ , but Fenris is _angry._   It radiates outward it in the tense line of his shoulders, in the muscle jumping along his clenched jaw.  Fenris’ anger even has a _sound_ : the soft grinding of his gauntleted fingers as he slowly clenches and unclenches his fists, an almost growling counterpoint to the waves crashing along the Wounded Coast.

Another nest of Tevinter slavers, discovered and destroyed, blood spattering the ground and themselves.  What remains bears each of their unique marks: bodies cleaved in two or hearts torn out, or riddled with crossbow bolts; there are some whose heads have been neatly removed by a pair of deadly-sharp daggers, or scorched and blackened with lightning and fire.  Isabela and Varric are checking the bodies for anything useful, valuable, or incriminating, but Fenris has stalked away from the battle, his fury simmering, and alleviated not at all by the fight.

Hawke glances back at the pair of rogues before following Fenris up the sandy path to the main… _road_ is too generous a term.  He stands just on the other side of a rocky niche, his body rigid, hands still flexing, his jaw clenched so tightly it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a tooth.

“Fenris?”

That he turns his head even a fraction is all that indicates he’s heard her.  It as much acknowledgement as she knows she’ll get right now.  “I’m not going to insult your intelligence by asking if you’re all right,” she says in that mild, conversational tone.  It is deceptive—wheedling without sounding so—and she tries to save it for those times when she knows Fenris doesn’t _want_ to— 

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

 _Well, damn_.

She takes another look down the trail—still no sign of Varric or Isabela.  No sounds of anything gone amiss, either, so Hawke is fairly confident a second wave of slavers, bandits, raiders, or what-blighted- _ever_ has not descended on them, allowing her to puzzle this out for at least another moment or two.  

“They… spoke Arcanum,” she ventures slowly, and of course they did—they were from Tevinter.  But Hawke can tell by the way Fenris’ posture grows even _more_ tense, by the way the muscle along his jaw jumps and tightens further, that this is at least part of the problem.  Familiar foes, then?  Hunters he’s encountered before, perhaps.

“You did not hear what they called you.”

“Oh, I heard.  But considering that my Arcanum is only slightly worse than my Orlesian, which is, let us not forget, _abysmal,_ I didn’t see the point in paying it much attention.”  She grins at him.  “Typically the people I’m frying to a crisp aren’t the most eloquent conversationalists.”

He doesn’t smile—not even the barest twitch of the lips; if anything, his mood darkens.

“ _Proditor_ ,” he mutters, spitting the word out as if it tastes foul upon his tongue.  All things considered, it might.  “Traitor.  Betrayer.”  At her baffled look—and Hawke _knows_ she looks baffled, because she _is_ baffled—Fenris shakes his head.  “A betrayer of mages, for fighting alongside a slave.”

“A _free man,_ ” she corrects him suddenly, _heatedly._   “In fact, I’m fairly certain you can’t get much freer than killing your former master.  Danarius is _dead_ and—”

“And that would stop _no one_ from attempting it again.”  Fenris does smile then, but it is a bitter, twisted, awful thing as he looks down his blood-smeared arms at the twining lines of silver gracing his skin.  “I am so _valuable_ , after all.”

“You’re also _wrong_ ,” Hawke says, taking a step closer.  _She_ is angry now.  Angry at Danarius, at the slavers, even—just a little bit, and she isn’t sure _why_ —at Fenris.  “In fact, I don’t think you’ve ever been _more_ blighted arse-backwards wrong in all the years I’ve known you.  Do you know what would stop them— _any of them_ —from attempting it again?”  Another step, even closer, and she doesn’t wait for a reply.  “ _You_ would _. I_ would.”  A pause.  “ _We_ would.  Do you think I give even half a bloody damn what some bastard slaver calls me as he’s dying?  Traitor?  Coming from the dead guy, that’s a _compliment._ ”  

Fenris doesn’t reply.  He doesn’t back down, either, and whatever he sees in her face, it makes a low flame spark  in his eyes, glowing like an ember.  A hundred arguments simmer in those eyes.  A thousand.  And she wants them _all_.  Always.  Forever.  

Fenris steps closer, until there’s not even room for the sound of the ocean to fit between them, and Hawke brings her left hand to his chin, her thumb rubbing the lines of lyrium as if she could smudge them away.

Their conversation has done little to soothe Fenris’ anger; Hawke knows nothing but time achieves that.  She doesn’t know—and cares _less_ —who breached whatever distance remained between them, but someone has.  His teeth graze her bottom lip and she presses harder, more insistently into the kiss.  It is not a gentle thing, but neither is it a mad collision of clicking teeth and groping hands.  The best word, perhaps, is _demanding._   They neither of them give any quarter, but soon it is Hawke who finds herself pressed against the rocky outcropping, and with every swipe of Fenris’ tongue against hers, she feels her temper spiral away from her, caring less and less she was ever angry to begin with.  The heated desperation slowly fades from the kiss; it slows and deepens with every breath until they part, both of them flushed and panting ragged breaths.  Isabela and Varric are still nowhere to be seen and Hawke can barely find the wherewithal to give a damn.

“Less valuable than _valued,_ ” Hawke murmurs when she has caught her breath, and she is so glad for the rocks pressing into her back, because without them it’s entirely possible she’d have slumped bonelessly to the ground by now.  And then she closes the scant inches between them, pressing a slow, chaste kiss against his parted lips.  “Don’t ever forget it.”

“I doubt you would let me.”

She smiles then, and kisses him again.  “I don’t plan on it.”


	3. Embers of Compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for mako_lies’ prompt: Give and take

###

_I love your lips when they’re wet with wine_

_And red with a wild desire;_

_I love your eyes when the love light lies_

_Lit with a passionate fire;_

_I love your arms when the warm white flesh_

_Touches mine in a fond embrace;_

_I love your hair when the strands enmesh_

_Your kisses against my face_

_~Ella Wheeler Wilcox_

###

It is like a dance.  So much is, between them.  A delicate, careful compromise.

They move together, and sometimes apart.  Forward.  Back.  On occasion they will move aside completely, though whether it is out of avoidance or let the other pass, neither can say.  Concession.  Understanding.  _Compromise_.  They must move carefully—more to the point, Hawke must, and she knows she must.  After three years of stilted silence running under forced conversation like a river coursing beneath a jagged layer of ice, Hawke pays attention.  She is careful in that she _takes care;_ she does not want to misstep in this dance of theirs, shattering something so fragile just because she didn’t _think_ before opening her mouth.

They amble back to Hightown after drinks and cards at The Hanged Man, her veins buzzing pleasantly with wine, emboldening her, loosening her tongue.  _Stay with me,_ she wants to say.  He does, sometimes.  Or she with him.  Sometimes they lay together upon her bed or his, sated and drowsing until the sun rises and shines through his tattered drapes, or until Hawke’s household awakens and Orana begins breakfast while Bodhan and Sandal load wood into the fireplaces to ease the night’s chill from the stones.  Sometimes he doesn’t stay, and Hawke knows his reasons are his own.  But she also knows if she gives him room to leave, it is all the sweeter when he decides to stay, just as Fenris knows the decision to stay is sweeter when it is his own.

Tonight the sharp corner they turn reveals his home first; the windows are dark, such a stark contrast to the yellow glow coming from the Hawke estate, every window lit, warm and welcoming.  But that matters little as they walk through the door, passing into the still-ruined foyer, shafts of moonlight guiding their steps as well as any lantern.  They brush against each other as they enter together, hands glancing against hands, fingers touching but never quite twining, legs brushing, arms grazing, but never with quite enough contact to make anything _ignite_.

She could, though.  Ignite.  Every brush, every brief, barely-there touch makes heat swirl and pound under her skin.  But she breathes in, settles her mana, and wills the power, her connection to the Fade, even now prickling in her blood to stop.  Or at least _settle._

 _Not here,_ Hawke reminds herself.  _Not here._   She will not use magic in Fenris’ house; it is a concession he is unaware of, but a promise she has made herself nonetheless.  And so, with a deep inhale and a slow exhale, she calms the heat simmering in her blood, hot and sparking in the deepest places where her magic lives and swirls and _thrives._

But then Fenris’ hand is at the small of her back as they climb the stairs, warm, _impossibly_ warm through her clothes, his touch doing absolutely nothing to ease the heat in her veins, and she turns.

“Do you wish to stay?” he asks, his voice low, the tenor of it skating across her skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake as he draws her closer against him before the large, dark fireplace.

“I will if you like,” is her reply, light and open, because he has given her what she most wants, and it’s not even that she’ll be staying, it’s that he _wants_ her to stay.  She does not presume to intrude upon his privacy, and she knows—she is fairly sure, anyway—there are still nights he prefers to sleep alone.  She assumes it’s to do with his nightmares, and if that is the case, she will not push him.  

“I would like nothing better,” he murmurs into her ear, one hand sliding into her hair, the other to her hip, and the warmth against her skin can’t begin to compare to the warmth _beneath_ it right now.  When the kiss comes, it is Hawke who begins it, who closes the scant distance between them with a groan as Fenris’ fingers trace a path from her hips to her waist, his arms sliding around her.  She brushes her lips lightly, teasingly against his mouth, until his fingers tighten on her, until his breathing grows too ragged with her teasing, and she gives him what he is asking for, until her mouth presses against his like his hands against her, moving against his lips so very slowly.  _Thoroughly_.

There are no demands right now, no frantic hands or biting kisses—there is time enough for that.  Tonight there is only the soft sound of hands gliding across clothes and skin, ragged breaths and half-whispered endearments.  Hawke is only barely aware of the faint blue glow around her hands as her palms drag up Fenris’ chest to his shoulders, and she realizes first that it’s the faintest tremors of mana slipping free, and second that the only reason she’s _seeing_ it is because the fire in the hearth is dead and cold, the room dark.

Fenris notices too—of course—and something about it pulls a soft chuckle from his lips.  Barely a laugh at all.

“Sorry,” she says, sheepishly, and with a breathless little laugh of her own, shaking out her fingers.  “Shall I?” she asks, nodding at the cold hearth, and when Fenris nods, she sets the log aflame, lighting the room in warmth and flickering light while providing an much-needed outlet for her own gathering heat and mana.  It will take time for the chill to recede from the floor, but they neither of them are in any sort of rush.

“Why… do you apologize?” he asks, taking one of her hands in his and pulling her closer.

“It’s nothing,” she says, smiling and shaking her head.  “You needn’t worry.”

“I did not say I was worried,” Fenris counters.  “Only that I want to know why you feel the need to apologize.”  

Hawke considers a fib.  _Briefly._   But, no, that would be worse, so she shrugs and sighs, holding up one hands and wiggling her fingers.  “Seems abominably rude, don’t you think?  To perform magic uninvited in another person’s house?”

“And do you… always refrain in this way?” 

Another shrug.  “As well as I can.”  She grins, ducking her head.  “You don’t always make it _easy_ , you know.”

Then his fingers are beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his, and the firelight warms his features, dances in the pale strands of hair, sets a light deep in his eyes.  Her breath catches and her heart thuds hard against her ribs.

“You of all people, Hawke— _you_ have no cause for such restraint.”  The fingertips beneath her chin slide until his hand cradles her jaw, fingers resting lightly against the side of her neck, just barely tickling her hairline.  When he speaks, his breath is warm against her lips, and Hawke’s vigilant construction of _compromise_ crumbles like a house of cards.  “Just as you have no reason to make such apologies.”

“You say that now,” she replies, and though she tries for levity, his hands are so warm on her, and his mouth is so very close to hers that the jest came out sounding too breathless by half.  “You say that now,” she tries again, “but just wait until I’ve burned down your house and you’ve nothing left but a smoldering ruin.”

“And yet the house was once Danarius’.  Do not think I have any sentimental attachment to it.”

“…Fenris?  Are you giving me permission to burn down your house?”

Another kiss comes then, his mouth slanting over hers, the faintest rumble of a chuckle vibrating against her lips, down to her chest, down to her _toes,_ and she wraps her arms around his neck, sighing into it.  Their dance has changed; no longer a careful series of steps, they are now lost in something far more intimate, with remarkably little footwork at all.

“Only if you truly believe you have nothing at all better to do with your time, Hawke.”


	4. What the Thunder Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a kiss-meme prompt from Loquaciousquark, requesting Fenris and Amelle kissing in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this collection's listed as "complete," but I didn't anticipate the tumblr kiss-meme prompt... thing that went around. Rather than open up a new collection of drabbles, I'm adding to this collection. :)

The world has no right being this dark, she thinks, but it is just this dark, and it is just this _wet,_ and there is nothing but rain all around, hard, slick cobblestones beneath her feet, and Fenris’ hand gripping hers as they hurry away from The Hanged Man, dashing from shopfront to shopfront, pressing themselves beneath awnings.  It is a pitiful attempt to stay dry—the summer storm descended upon Kirkwall with a fury born of heat that had lasted days into weeks, the air growing so still, so thick and so _close_ they none of them could bear it _._ No breezes came in off the Wounded Coast to provide relief—being so near the sea offered no relief at all, something Isabela bemoaned almost constantly.

But now… now the unrelenting rain pours down in sheets and the long-absent breeze has returned with a vengeance, blowing the rain until it’s coming down something close to sideways, pelting her skin like cold little pinpricks, soaking her through, until her hair is plastered to her head, rivulets cascading down her face, down her neck and into her dress, which is already so wet it doesn’t make a difference.

And they have not traveled ten yards from The Hanged Man’s door.

Thunder sounds above, and in such a storm as this the thunder doesn’t rumble, doesn’t clap—it tears _through_ her, a deep, booming crash that drives through the sky, rippling through the clouds and sending the stones beneath her feet trembling with the sound.  

It is like nothing she has ever experienced—rain and wind and _noise_ , and there is such raw, natural power behind it she can scarcely wrap her head around the enormity of such a storm.

To hurry through it like they are is… it’s a _waste._   Home is waiting for them.  It isn’t going anywhere—it’s still somewhere on the other side of this wet darkness, aglow with lights in the windows.  They will still be as wet as they are now by the time they reach her front door.

It is with this thought in mind that Amelle stops, twisting her rain-slick hand out of Fenris’ grip.

He thinks—is _sure_ —something is wrong, and takes her hand again, but Amelle only smiles and takes a step back, tugging Fenris with her.

“What’s your hurry?” she asks him, raising her voice over the rush of water pounding against stone.  “It’s a nice night.”

He pauses and, oh, Amelle knows the quality of that particular pause.  “A nice night,” he echoes, his voice flat and dubious.

“What’s wrong with it?  The heat’s finally broke, there isn’t a soul about—nobody’s tried to skewer us in the last ten minutes, which has to be a record—and I’m being escorted home by the best-looking man in the Free Marches.”

He breathes a laugh, though Amelle isn’t entirely sure which part he found amusing.  “It is raining,” he reminds her.  As if she needed a reminder.

“You don’t say.”  She steps closer and runs both hands up his arms.  The lyrium in his skin sends a shiver through her blood, her mana pricking in response as if something has been calling to it.  And maybe something _has._

“I do say,” Amelle replies with a cheeky grin, lifting herself up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips; Fenris smiles against her mouth, such a tiny thing, barely even hinting at his amusement, but there it is, and it’s hers.  She presses against him, wrapping her arms around his neck, tilting her head and parting her lips as the rain continues sluicing over them, the wind buffeting their bodies.  Fenris’ arms are around her then, pulling her closer until the toggle clasps on his jerkin press through the thin material of her dress and Amelle can’t quite care about rain, about damp shoes or cold water trickling down her neck.  She can’t even make herself care about the warm hearth waiting for them both.  Or the dry bed.

Well, maybe the bed.

Then another sharp crack rings out above them, another clap of thunder so deep and so loud it shudders through them both, and in that moment the sheer _force_ of nature breaking loose all around them makes her gasp, makes Fenris’ hands tighten on her hips, makes her want to get home as soon as possible.

Amelle pulls out of a lingering kiss long enough to lick a trickle of rain from Fenris’ upper lip.  “Let’s go home.”

Fenris only bows his head until his lips are by her ear.  “What’s your hurry?” he asks, his voice low and rich, and she shudders again.

“It’s raining.”

 


	5. Salt the Earth with Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt from Apocalisse: Amelle and Fenris, a hip kiss. (I did not give in to a silly urge to write this as a beatnik AU. Thank me later.)

She doesn’t like to think about Kirkwall, doesn’t like to think about the smoldering wreck of a city she left behind, doesn’t like to think about the lives lost and ruined, the madness and insanity and the absolute rejection of reason that had flooded her life for days and weeks and months and _years_.  It hovers behind her, miles of ocean behind, and though Hawke knows if she looks over her shoulder she will not see black smoke curling up into the sky, ash and dirt and worse caught on swirling eddies as the wind comes in off the sea.

She will not see it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not _there._

Weeks at sea, heading east—east and not west because there’s nothing waiting for her to the west but Orlais and she wants nothing to do with Orlais, nothing to do with politics or even _people_ , so when Isabela suggests stopping in Alamar because of all the places nobody will look, Alamar is high on the list, so absurdly, dangerously close to Brandel’s Reach, but after what they all have lived through, none of them fear raiders.  So Alamar it is.  A port is a port, after all, and they need fresh water and supplies—and above all that, they need a _plan._

Alamar doesn’t have much to offer, but there is an inn that could pass for The Hanged Man’s more reputable, less-gritty cousin.  It isn’t fancy, but it is clean and they’ve been assured the meat in the stew is lamb, apparently the only meat raised on the tiny island.  The ale is made locally as well, because apparently when one lives on an island a stone’s throw from a veritable kingdom of raiders, it is an early lesson learned that imports often don’t reach their destination.  They are a tough, self-sufficient people, who don’t ask questions.

She doesn’t want to _stay,_ but she likes it here.  Likes the… _honesty_ of it.  And that will do for now.

The room she shares with Fenris is small but neatly kept, the sheets mended many times over for all they’re crisp and clean and smell faintly of the sea air that dried them.  She sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at him; they have not had time to _talk_ since leaving Kirkwall.  She has spent most of her time at sea being sick of it, and over it, and _in_ it (and even now the floor feels as if it’s bobbing faintly beneath her).  But when she looks up into his face—she doesn’t know what Fenris finds there, and Maker, she’d love to know—she sees eyes so dark and green they get lost in the candlelit shadows playing across his face.  She sees a mouth set into a line both firm and thoughtful.  She sees countless unnameable emotions playing across his face, but none of them indicate there will be _talk_ any time soon.  Everything hurts too much to put into _words,_ to reduce to conversation.

He drops to his knees and takes her face into his hands, and it is all she can do to keep her eyes open when she wants to close them and lean into his touch and _forget._

Then his mouth is on hers, hot and pliant, and she wonders if he needs to forget, too.

The kiss is nothing if not demanding; it is the kiss of someone who needs to remind himself they are alive for a _reason._   Or perhaps that is only Amelle.  She has seem too much death, has _dealt_ too much death; in that final battle she killed as many as she’d healed, and while perhaps there had been a time when she’d reveled in being Kirkwall’s Champion, all she feels now is sorrow and pity and shame at the title.  A Champion is something else, something _more—_ something beyond a dealer of death.

And now…

She kisses Fenris harder, fingers digging into his shoulders as she clutches at him, pulling him closer.  Tears sting at her eyes even as Fenris’ lips work against hers, even as his teeth catch her lower lip, even as his hands clutch and grasp as desperately as her own.  

She needs to feel alive.  There has been too much death and too much of it dealt by her hands.  She needs—Maker, she needs this.  Needs _him._

Fenris’ hands find the hem of her tunic and he pulls it up roughly, impatiently, as Amelle raises her arms for him, the garment coming up and up and off, before he tosses it aside. 

“Lie back,” he tells her, his voice so low, so rough and gravelly it is barely a voice at all and more a shadow given sound and she sucks in a breath and holds it, inching back across the mattress—Fenris climbs atop it, crawling over her as she moves backward, and this— _this_ is why she’s holding her breath, because if she wasn’t her breaths would be coming too fast, too quick.  But then her back hits the pillows and she sinks against them.

There isn’t much talking—talking, she knows, will come later, when they neither of them feel so terribly _wounded_. If they speak, it’s to breathe the other’s name.  If there is sound, it is the whisper of fabric against skin, the soft creak of a bed as weight shifts upon it.

Soon he’s unfastening her trousers and easing them down past her hips and down her legs—she wiggles a bit to help the process and eventually the pants meet the same fate as the shirt—and then he simply… stops.  His arms are braced on either side of her body as his mouth hovers scant inches above the skin along her hip.

The shadows thrown across his face are darker now, and it has next to impossible to read his expression, but Amelle is nearly certain she spies the tiniest twitch of a secretive smile.  She breathes his name, though that’s more to do with the fact that she’s lost her breath at the sight of him like this—definitely at that almost-smile.  

And then Fenris dips his head and drags the very tip of his tongue along the dip and curve of her hip.  His mouth descends to kiss the spot, teeth catching the skin so _gently_ —so surprisingly, undeniably _gently_ and all she can manage is a gasp as heat pulses hard through her body, simmering just— _just_ beneath the skin.

There is no rush, nowhere to be—at least not _immediately_.  Amelle sinks into the bedding and loses herself in the warm lips and tongue gliding across her hip.

She feels _alive_ for the first time since Kirkwall fell.


	6. In the Family Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an anonymous prompt for Amelle and Fenris and a "firm kiss."
> 
> (PS: To anyone who's read "That Which is Lost," that's Mirae in there. ;))

She is still the most beautiful woman he has ever known.  But those are words he knows she does not want to hear right now, even though the truth of them burns on his lips.  She is beautiful, and it is a beauty that has been augmented over the years the more he became acquainted with her kindness, her intelligence, her tenacity, and wit.  There was a time, certainly, when he questioned her place by his side—and questioned his own place by _her_ side even more.  There was a time when he’d had no doubt she did not deserve the likes of him, a time when he would have thought her entirely justified in casting him from her company forever.

Those are days long behind them.  He remembers that time, still feels the prick of emotion in his chest when he does—the night he walked out on her with the warmth of her skin still clinging to his, the taste of her kisses upon his lips is one such moment that lives most vividly. But it is all in the past,  and it is the _future_ he and Hawke are interested in now.  _Their_ future. Building it together has been a slow process that has been, at times, arduous.  They have not been without arguments; he and his wife, his _Hawke,_ are a stubborn pair and they have both always known it to be true.  They fight, and there is no plainer way to put it.  There have been shouts and slammed doors; there have been days on end when they have not spoken to each other, choosing instead to let silence stretch out and thicken between them, filling up every corner and crevice around them until one or the other crosses the battle lines to make peace.

Some might say life is too short to entertain anger; Fenris is of the opposite opinion: life is too short to go without the benefits entertaining anger occasionally provides.

…The result of which is growing in his wife’s belly even now.

Amelle—always his Hawke, forever his Hawke—is glaring at him from where she is propped up in bed, her belly too large and unwieldy for her to do anything _but_ glare.  She cannot even cross her arms over her chest with any measure of comfort, which only serves to heighten her frustration.  She is glaring not at him or anything he’s done; she is glaring because there is so little else _she can do._ The midwife has advised—strongly and a number of times already—that she stay off her feet until the child arrives.  

Unfortunately, their offspring is not proving to be particularly punctual.  And every day that passes without some… _development_ in her condition, the less pleased she becomes.  She is uncomfortable and easily fatigued, her temper fraying around the edges when she requires help to stand, to sit again, or to find her shoes, to say nothing of putting them _on._   There have been more instances of accidental magic than Fenris cares to recount over the past nine months, more as she creeps closer to term, and she is as like to burst into tears as she is to freeze over an entire pot of tea into a solid block instead of warming it, managing to crack the teapot in the process, which happened less than a week ago.

All of this aside—short tempers and fickle mana—Fenris still cannot quite believe they will, within what can only be a matter of days by now (though he hopes for Amelle’s sake it is less), be _parents._ He has very little memory of his own mother, nothing beyond flashes of sense-memory—lips upon his forehead, a hand holding his, the warmth of arms clutching him close—and none whatsoever of his father, and he wonders (in darker moments those thoughts are tinged with doubt) whether he has any right to be a father at all.  What parental experience do either of them have?  Granted, Hawke has run herd over a band of troublesome compatriots—and he should know; having been one of their number—and he has far more faith in her ability to be a mother than in his to be a father.

And yet.  He will have a family _.  They_ will be a _family_.

It is truly more than he ever dared to wish for.

Fenris knows the word has broader connotations than blood-relations.  He knows there is value in the family one chooses.  He knows all this, and yet cannot deny the anticipation and elation that live pressed in close to his fears and doubts, like the other side of the same coin—his doubt he will know what to do, ever, at any given time, his fear he will fail in protecting this thing, this _life_ that is already precious beyond words to him.  

Two lives, now, that mean more to him than his own.

“Maker, you look maudlin,” she says to him, holding out one hand.  “I thought _I_ was supposed to be the impossibly, _unreasonably_ emotional one here.”

He takes her hand, threading his fingers with hers as he perches on the edge of the bed.  “I am not,” he tells her, though if he’s honest with himself he knows it’s a lie, “maudlin.”

“The maudlinest.”  She smiles, though there is fatigue woven through it.  “Broody, too.”  Her fatigue fades then into something like impishness and Fenris is groaning before she can even say the _words_ —

“‘If your brooding were any more impressive—‘”

“Do not—“

“—Women would _swoon_ as you went past.”

Fenris lowers his brows in a glare, which he does half because he knows she expects it, knows she would be disappointed if he _didn’t_ glower.  “I do not recall you _swooning_ —”

“Oh, I swooned all right.  Just never where you could see it.  Shall I continue?”

“Please do not.”

“‘And they’d have broody babies in your honor.’”  Here she smiles smugly and runs their joined hands over her _so very_ rounded stomach.  

“Our child,” he tells her— _reminds_ her, for they have had this exchange countless times—stilling their hands against her belly, “will not be a _broody_ —”

Something nudges the palm of his hand through the thin material of Hawke’s nightdress.  She sucks in a surprised breath then looks at him, her grin crooked and amused. “He was agreeing with me.”

“No,” he murmurs, running a hand over the spot where the baby had kicked, “ _she_ was agreeing with me.”

In truth, he’d been… hesitant to touch Hawke after she first discovered her condition.  He was too afraid of the lyrium in his skin passing from him to Amelle to the unborn life inside her.

That lasted roughly a week.

Before Amelle can deliver her retort, however, the child kicks again, but there is less surprise than discomfort, and she winces. “Maker help me,” she mutters, trying to push herself up against the pillows, “girl or boy, broody baby or not, I wish they’d get this business over with.”  She sends him a sidelong glance, and there, in the depth of her eyes there are twin flashes of pain and exhaustion and he wishes, he wishes more than anything he could ease this burden somehow, bear even a portion of what she has to bear.  

Amelle’s smile is tight, but genuine.  “Maudlin again, my love,” she murmurs, bringing their joined hands to her lips and brushing a kiss across his knuckles.  And then that particular wave of discomfort passes and the tightness around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth dissipates.  “I guess I should count my lucky stars you’re _willing_ to be maudlin over me when I’m as big as a house.”

“You are _not_ as big as a house,” he tells her, sternly.  

Amelle shoots him a particularly eloquent look.  “Elves who tell fibs ought to beware lightning bolts,” she says, but Fenris squeezes the hand still held in his and fixes her with a look, his eyes boring down into hers.

“You are,” he tells her slowly, “the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance.”

“Well, to be fair you haven’t really got a wide circle of—”

“The most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

“Oh, that’s— _Fenris_ ,” she sighs, aggrieved, “I don’t have ankles.  Beautiful women are supposed to have _ankles._   I’m fairly sure there’s a standard for this sort of thing somewhere.”

And though the plaintive note in her voice tells him she is at least partly in jest, Fenris relinquishes her hand to cup her face in his.  She meets his eyes soberly, closing them in momentary bliss only when he runs his thumbs across her cheeks.

“You are beautiful,” he tells her again, never pulling his eyes from hers.  “Kind.  Clever.  Stubborn.”  She breathes a laugh against his lips at the word, but does not interrupt.  “All the mother of our child _should_ be.  You will always be these things, Amelle Hawke, and nothing you can do will erase those qualities.”  

He pauses, long enough to take a breath.  

“Ever.”  

Before she can protest, before she can _argue,_ he closes the breath of distance between them, pressing a kiss to her lips as if to seal his words against her mouth. It is perhaps not their most passionate kiss, for all it starts out firm before Amelle’s mouth softens beneath his and she parts her lips with a sigh, clever fingers ghosting a path up his arms and into his hair.  He runs one thumb across her cheek as she returns the kiss, splaying his free hand across her rounded belly.  

The life within nudges against his hand, reminding him it will not be long now.  And Fenris wonders if this one will be as kind, clever, and maddeningly stubborn as its mother.

He rather hopes so.


	7. Partial to His Profile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt from Lyndztanica, asking for Amelle and Fenris, and a "nose kiss."
> 
> Probably a good time to mention none of these are meant to be an any sort of chronological order at all.

Amelle loves Fenris’ nose.

She will never _tell_ him so, because one does not simply say _I love your nose,_ because that’s… rather an odd thing to admit, no matter how true it may be.  But it’s moments like right now, while she’s lying on her side, her pillow bunched up beneath her head, legs stretched out lazily and tangled in the sheets, blinking dozily at Fenris while he sleeps on, slender shafts of weak morning light pushing through the gap in the drapes, cutting a swath through the comparative dimness and illuminating his profile while catching his pale hair, so heart-achingly mussed and bed-rumpled…

Yes.  She loves his nose.  Loves _him_ , too, as it happens, but that’s an admission too big, too _much_ for her right now.  Doesn’t make it any less true, but as truths go, this one is young and new, living in the very depths of her heart, stretching out shy, hesitant tendrils like a seedling that has pushed its way out of the dirt, tender young leaves unfurling in the sun.  

But his nose?  That she can freely admit to loving.  Amelle enjoys admiring his profile, the way it shifts with his expressions—glare to sneer to the faintest, most fleeting smile.  From the front, she adores the way the thick, dark slash of his eyebrows draw together and create a furrow at the top.  She loves the eyes beneath those thick brows, standing sentry on either side of his nose—eyes greener than a cat’s, greener than Ferelden’s pines, greener even than her own eyes.  She delights in the straight line of his nose, the way it leads down to his mouth (like his eyes, Amelle also loves his mouth, his chin, the line of his jaw, but those are other topics entirely).  

Another sigh, and this time Fenris turns his head, rolling onto his side.  Seconds pass before he blinks awake sleepily.  

“Good morning,” she murmurs, stretching one leg out towards his and rubbing the top of her foot against his ankle.

“Mmm.”  He closes his eyes again.  Inhales.  Exhales.  Doesn’t speak again.

Amelle waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t, and several heartbeats of silence pass before she says, with only a breath of indignation, “I was _not_ watching you sleep.”

One green eye opens.  “Did I say you were?”

“I heard the accusation in the nature of your grunt.”

He snorts, nostrils flaring.  “I am far more articulate than I had ever given myself credit for being, then.”

“You _have_ been known to convey an idea with a look more eloquently than some are able to, even with the power of speech.”

“Is that so?”  His hand snakes out, finding the curve of her waist and pulling her closer, until her mouth is even with the very nose she’d been admiring so openly earlier.  She brushes her lips across the bridge, then once more across the tip, allowing herself a chuckle when Fenris’ brows contract, one of them arching sharply at the gesture.  

“What,” he says, his voice still husky with sleep, the quality of which is yet another thing she loves, “are you doing?”

She kisses his nose again, this time pulling herself closer to him until her legs slide against his, until she’s resting against the solid warmth of him.  “Taking the scenic route,” she explains with a smile before dipping her head to brush her lips across his once, then twice.  

Fenris’ mouth curves up on one side, more of a smirk than anything else, but it is a sleepy expression, and the tiny thing in Amelle’s heart stretches and grows at the sight of it.  

“The scenic route,” he echoes dryly, shaking his head at her.

Then, angling herself even closer, breath catching at the contact, at the slow path Fenris’ hand takes along her hip before coming to rest at the small of her back, Amelle presses a third kiss to his mouth, this one loaded with nothing but _intent._  

“Absolutely the scenic route.”  She kisses him again, harder, heat flaring in her belly while something else pounds in her heart, unfurling, stretching, _growing_.  “Nothing wrong with taking the long way home.”

Even if it takes three years to arrive home again.


	8. Prompt-fill: non-rom nose kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt-fill, asking for a non-rom nose kiss.
> 
> Set in the "From the Ashes" universe, post-fic.

Amelle counted.Again.

Ten toes.Ten tiny, perfect toes, attached to two perfect feet, leading up to chubby ankles, chubbier calves and dimpled knees.Two little fists flailed in the air with what Amelle considered to be positively stunning displays of coordination.

Not that she was biased, of course.Perish the thought.

Mirae lay in her bassinet, cooing happily when she wasn’t blowing spit bubbles, her little hands still flailing, until she brought them together with a clap.The sound was such that the spit bubbles ceased immediately, and her daughter widened her eyes—blue-grey now, still, but the shape of her eye was obviously Fenris’ contribution to the collaboration—and let out a surprised peal of laughter.She clapped her hands again, and again, and again, laughing more uproariously each time, until one attempt missed the mark, both hands passing each other like a pair of birds missing a midair collision at the last moment.

And then Mirae _scowled,_ glaring at her fists as if they were somehow to blame.

This was enough to make _Amelle_ laugh, shaking her head as she reached down into the cradle and gathered the warm, soft little body into her arms.Mirae clung instinctively, dropping her head against Amelle’s shoulder and resuming her very industrious spit-bubble-blowing work, which indicated to Amelle a superior ability to focus and concentrate, even if it did dampen her robes somewhat.Still, she slipped a cloth beneath her daughter’s head at the first opportunity.

The nursery was a warm, sunlit room with windows overlooking the river, which was a deep, impossible blue beneath the summer sky.A boat with billowing white sails made its lazy way along the water—the journey looked positively smooth from this distance, but Amelle knew better. 

As she was staring out the window, Mirae turned her head and let out another laugh—a sound that was quickly working its way up to the top of Amelle’s favorite sounds to hear—flinging one dimpled arm out, as if pointing to the very boat— _ship_ —Amelle had been watching seconds before.

“Boat?” she said, grinning even as she imagined the look on Isabela’s face.

_“Ah!”_

“Boat?” Amelle said again, lifting her eyebrows.

Mirae’s tongue peeked between her lips as she blew. _“Pblllth._ ”

Amelle laughed in spite of herself, wiping spittle from her cheek.“We are _never_ telling Auntie ‘Bela about that.”She paused.“Let’s not tell her we’ve started calling her Auntie ‘Bela yet, either, hmm?”Mirae cooed with what sounded enough like agreement to Amelle’s ears.“Mm, yes.That is the sensible choice.I agree.”

The next voice made her start.“You know as well as I she will only pretend to be annoyed by it.”

She whirled to find Fenris, leaning in the nursery doorway, Starkhaven armor gleaming warmly.Mirae’s cooing went up a joyful octave.“You snuck up on me.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” he replied mildly.A faint smile lifted at the corner of his mouth, eyes softening as they fell on their sooty-curled offspring.“You were involved in rather deep conversation.I am unsurprised you didn’t hear me approach.”

“Indeed. Mimi has been raising some rather fascinating philosophical observations on the nature of spit bubbles.”

“I can only imagine.”Shucking his gauntlets and setting them aside, he came into the room.He shook his head when Amelle offered Mirae to him.“The armor might pinch.”

“It never pinches.”

“Which is not to say it never _will,_ ” he replied, reaching up to wind a finger around one of Mirae’s curls, then down to trace the outline of one blunted ear.“With every day that passes,” he murmured, emotion thickening his voice, “she looks more like you.”

These words were enough to startle a laugh out of her.“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you not see it?”

“She looks like _you._ You missed her scowling earlier; I half expected her to request a wine bottle to throw at the wall.”Amelle brought a finger up to trace their daughter’s profile.“And she has your nose.”

Frowning, Fenris brought one hand to his brow, fingertips tracing down the length of his nose.“I… do not see it.”

“Well, trust me. I look at your face every day. I should think I’d recognize a familiar nose when I see it.”She smiled down into Mirae’s face as she gurgled contentedly, then dropped a kiss upon the aforementioned nose.Mirae’s gurgles turned to giggles and she began waving her fists again.“Now,” she said, speaking seriously to her daughter, “no breaking bottles before you’re twelve, and no crushing hearts until you’re sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” Fenris echoed, sounding strangled.As Amelle blinked at him, he looked down at Mirae and shook his head.“Eighteen.”

Their daughter’s brows furrowed into a scowl as she once again pushed her tongue out between her lips and blew. 

_“Pbblthh.”_

Amelle took no pains whatsoever to hide her laughter as Fenris reached up to wipe spittle from his own cheek.“I could be wrong, but I think you’ve been outvoted, my love.”

 

 


	9. Prompt-fill: And then there's tongue!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention that I wrote a few of these so long ago that I cannot remember who requested/prompted _what_. If I don't specify who the ficlet was written for, it is because I cannot remember and cannot find the original tumblr post.
> 
> This fic was written for the kiss-prompt challenge: "And then there's tongue."
> 
> Amelle/Fenris, set post-"From the Ashes"

Sometimes Amelle wondered what in all the Void she did to get so damned _lucky._

This morning, for instance.She rolled over, stretching one lazy arm out to find, not her husband, but a warm tangle of sheets and a dented pillow where he’d lain until very recently.Curiosity prompted her to pry one sleepy eye open.

And, Maker help her, she was so very glad she did.

Fenris stood by the wide window, his palms flat on the sill as he stared at Starkhaven spread out below, at the river beyond the city walls, at the slow-rising sun coming up over the mountains past the the river, burning away the morning mist and touching the thin, stretched clouds hanging lazily above, turning them gold and pink as it eased away the lingering grey dawn.The rosy light touched his skin—Fenris was bare to the waist, and so there was so very much skin to touch—casting the faintest tint upon him, the fine hairs upon his forearms, the white, twining tattoos that climbed up his back and split like a vine to stretch across every inch of skin.

Suddenly and admittedly irrationally jealous of the sun for drenching her husband in its touch, Amelle pushed the coverlet back and slid silently out of bed, crossing the room to stand behind Fenris and press a kiss to his shoulder.He didn’t startle, and that didn’t surprise her.

“I did not wish to wake you,” he murmured, turning his head a fraction.The sunrise caught his sleep-tousled hair, and Amelle ran her fingers through it before stretching up to kiss the pointed shell of one ear.

“I woke up anyway,” she replied quietly, turning her attention to the nape of his neck and placing a slow, gently biting kiss there.Fenris rewarded her with a shudder and a sigh that turned to a low, content hum as she wrapped her arms around him, hands splayed across his stomach, her cheek pressed against one shoulder blade.“You weren’t there.”

“My apologies.”

Smiling, she pressed another kiss against his back.Again, Fenris breathed a content groan.“Apology accepted.”And with that, she dragged the tip of her tongue down his spine, following the thin vein of dormant lyrium down to the waist of the loose pants he wore.Fenris let loose another shudder, his fingers flexing against the windowsill.

“Amelle,” he managed, his voice still thick and rough with sleep, now edged with something else that made her toes curl.

“Yes?” she replied on a pause before following another of the curling lines, licking a path to his other shoulder and across again.His skin was warm, with the tang of salt to it, a heady combination that sent anticipation sparking down her spine.

“What are you—”

She licked her way down one bicep, then bit gently, playfully at the muscle, looking up at him, making no effort whatsoever to inject guilelessness into her smile.“Are you honestly going to ask me what I’m doing?”

Green eyes dark with want and promise cleared suddenly as wry amusement flickered across Fenris’ features like a flash of sunlight through shifting clouds.“I… confess, I was.”

Ducking under his arm and situating herself between her husband and the windowsill, Amelle wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his neck, her tongue following the lyrium that trailed down his throat.“If you haven’t figured it out yet, you soon will.”

Fenris’ hands were warm and sure as he gripped her waist and worked upwards, catching and snagging her thin silken nightgown.He cupped her breasts briefly—too briefly—and it was Amelle’s turn to shudder and moan, but then his fingers were at her chin, tipping her head back and drifting along her jaw before carding into her hair.The sunrise was now more gold than pink, warm against his skin, his hair, his eyes, and her breath caught. 

“I believe… I’m figuring it out,” Fenris murmured, his lips close enough to brush Amelle’s—brushing, touching, _teasing_ , until he ran the tip of his tongue across her lower lip.The warmth—no, the _heat_ of that light, teasing touch sent a ragged shiver running through her and Fenris chuckled as Amelle leant forward the same moment she snaked one hand up behind his neck and _pulled_ , kissing him, swallowing his laughter.

Whatever remained of Fenris’ mirth burned away the very second his tongue touched hers. 

There was nothing light or teasing about the way Fenris kissed her, his tongue sliding against hers with maddening patience and obvious intent that flared a scorching path down to her toes.Slowly, so slowly—never acknowledging her cues (now, more; _now, more_ )—until Amelle’s fingers went tight in his hair, until she was nibbling at his lips, silently urging him on.

But still Fenris would not be led.Still, he kissed her slowly, deeply, thumbs stroking her cheeks, pulling away to graze his teeth or the tip of his tongue across her lip, drinking in every shudder, every gasp and repaying her in kind.The tenor of the kiss was like a slowly cresting wave, such that Amelle found the desperate, frantic edge to her desire was slowly pulled under.She met those agonizingly slow, deliciously intent swipes of his tongue with more of her own, thrusting back and forth until Fenris’ breath was as ragged and uneven as her own.

When he pulled away, Amelle couldn’t swallow her disappointment, silenced only when Fenris rested his thumb against her lips.Amelle darted her tongue out to lick the pad of his thumb, but whatever reaction she’d been hoping for, one side of his kiss-bruised mouth lifting in a smirk… wasn’t it.He brought his mouth to one side of her neck, tongue tracing her pulsepoint down to her collarbone, and further down to the swell of her breasts, fingertips tracing her nightgown’s neckline slowly, back and forth, until Amelle’s fingers ached from where she gripped the windowsill.Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back, soaking in the sensation of Fenris’ lips, teeth, and tongue across her skin.

Dawn was full upon them now; early sunlight warmed her shoulders and neck, and that slow, comfortable warmth warred with a decidedly different sort of heat, made more noticeable when Fenris’ hands came to rest on her hips, the soft whisper of silk against her skin the only sound in the room as he pulled the hem of her nightdress higher and higher.

Amelle’s eyes shot open to find Fenris knelt in front of her.Sunlight still caressed her back, and a cool breeze off the river ruffled her hair.

They were in front of an _open window._

“Fenris?” she whispered.“What are you _doing_?”

His smile was decidedly wolfish as he leant forward and licked a long, slow path up one thigh.“If you haven’t figured that out yet,” he murmured, “you soon will.”


	10. Prompt-fill: Forceful kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt-fill for the kiss-challenge--Amelle/Fenris: A forceful kiss.
> 
> Set in the Laudanum & Lyrium universe.

Fenris doesn’t know how he knows it’s a dream, but he knows all the same.

Perhaps it is Hawke herself, the loose dressing gown hanging from her shoulders; the silk is the color of fire, orange and red at turns, its trim flaring gold in the light.The robe is belted, but loosely, the garment forming a V against her pale skin, deep enoughthat he sees the swell of her breasts, their gentle weight casting a shadow down her belly.The silk clings to hips and buttocks he has admired in trousers.She wears nothing underneath; he knows that. All he has to do is push the robe open and she will be there, all of her, bare before him.

He knows it is a dream; Hawke is not so brazen as this.Hawke does not watch him with heat in her eyes, the tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips to wet them.Hawke would not loosen the knot at her waist this way, moving closer to him with such intent.

And yet. _And yet._

His heart pounds as she draws nearer.

 _A dream,_ he tells himself. _Only a dream._

Then her fingers find the waistband of his pants, pulling him close as her other hand slides so warmly up his arm to his shoulder, to the back of his neck, fingers twining and twisting hard in his hair as she pulls him close, her body pressing, her fingers turning tighter, _tighter_ in his hair as her mouth—

Her _mouth._

Dimly he remembers a secluded tower, soft lips parting in surprise, the tentative touch of a tongue against his.

But here, now, Hawke is all clutching fingers and thrusting tongue; her mouth hard and demanding against his, as if to claim him.Here she is not shy, is not tentative; here her tongue parts his lips with all the certainty of ownership.

She kisses him as if to _possess him_.

And for a moment—scarcely as second—he considers submitting, letting himself be pulled beneath that undertow.He considers her weight pushing him down upon a bed as her mouth devours him—

He would _let her_ devour him.Fenris knows this, knows it as sure as he knows this is a dream.

 _“I want you, Fenris,_ ” she whispers against him, fingernails raking up his chest before closing her lips over hers again, eating at his mouth in a kiss.

It would be so easy, so very easy, to allow himself to be taken this way.To succumb to the tide pulling him down, clutching at him—

_I want you, Fenris._

_And so you may have me._

This isn’t right.Hawke is not silken robes and come-hither smiles.Hawke is clean air after a storm.She is fresh hay and candied ginger.She is butter-soft leather and wrought-iron determination.

Again he pulls at the memory of that shared kiss, impudent fingers carding so gently through his hair—

_“You’d rather pretend to be two people who went into the tower and didn’t enjoy themselves?”_

But then silk turns rough beneath his fingers; the robe is gone and in its place Hawke wears a simple shirt and trousers.

_“Well?”_

_“Well, what?”_ he asks.Holding on to the thread of conversation is difficult, for she is still pressed against him, though not nearly so wantonly as before.

She smiles, showing her dimple. _“Would you rather we pretend not to enjoy ourselves?”_

 _“I would rather not pretend at all,”_ he replies—and it is the truth, for it is easier to be truthful here and now—and then it is his hands in her hair, his arms pulling her close, his mouth over hers. 

Oh, but in the depths of his brain Fenris knows what he wants from her, and knows what he does not want.He does not want to be possessed, but neither does he want to possess another.He does not want Hawke to yield to him, to open against him like an unfolding flower.

Instead, she meets his ardor, matching it with her own; her mouth works against his, tongues sliding, teeth clicking, hands searching.The force of her magic—of fire and ice and lightning—all fuel her kiss, but rather than be subsumed, it ignites something in him.It awakens—

“Fenris?”

He blinks to find himself in darkness—no, not darkness, but near it.Hawke’s face hovers above his own, backlit by the campfire.His fingers twitch as he begins to reach for her, but—no.

He is awake.He is awake, it is dark, and worry is etched across Hawke’s features.

“Yes,” he manages, sitting up and rubbing at his face.“I am awake.Is something wrong?”

She glances around, the firelight sending shadows dancing across her face.“No.Still quiet so far.”Varric’s snore punctuates the statement.“I… you were talking in your sleep.I thought maybe you were—I thought it might’ve been a nightmare.”

 _Talking in his sleep._ The moisture leeches out of his mouth and he licks suddenly dry lips.“I… apologize.If it disturbed you.”

Her eyebrow arches suddenly.“You apologize if your nightmare disturbed me?”

He blinks again, forcing the cobwebs to clear from his brain.“Forgive me.I am notyet… entirely alert.”

“Understandable.I only thought—well.You were restless and muttering in your sleep.”

“I see.”He swallows, only to find his mouth as dry as it ever was.Firelight flatters Hawke, softens the sharpness of her chin, flickers gold in her green eyes.He pulls his eyes away from her face and looks at the fire instead.“Dare I ask what I said?”

“The same thing, over and over again.”

His eyes slide over to her.“Which was?”

“I am yours,” she says, glancing away as she offers an uncomfortable shrug.“You kept saying, ’ _I am yours.’_ ”


End file.
